


The Good Ones

by Ember_Keelty



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mages and Templars, Solitary Confinement, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 22:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12285468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ember_Keelty/pseuds/Ember_Keelty
Summary: It's not that Anders is unaware that some Templars aren't as bad as others. After all, he had years in Kinloch Hold to get to know the whole spectrum of them.One year in particular taught him a lot on that subject.





	The Good Ones

Anders barely notices when he first starts receiving double rations. Dinner goes as it always does: the slot in the door opens, the tray slides through, and, like a feral animal, he devours everything on it in a matter of seconds. These days, he's too desperate and too weak to even chew properly. The hard chunks of cold bread and cured meat scrape the inside of his throat and settle like gravel in his stomach, but Anders doesn't mind. If anything, the lingering discomfort serves as reassurance that he didn't just imagine his last meal.

It's only some time later that he begins to think that the weight in his stomach might be a little bit heavier than he's gotten used to it being. He could just be imagining _that_ , though.

When the same thing happens the following day, Anders resolves to pause and take stock of the food before eating it next time. That resolution is quickly forgotten, then remembered a few minutes too late, then forgotten again. By the fifth day, though, the fog that's been clouding his mind for weeks has started to clear, and he's able to confirm his suspicion. Not only is there far more food on the tray than he's come to expect since the guard shift was taken up by some sadist intent on starving him, but it's twice as much as he's supposed to be given.

Probably. He thinks. His memory hasn't been entirely trustworthy of late.

Wonderingly, Anders weighs the rations in his hands, half expecting them to turn out to be insubstantial visions. They aren't. He eats them slowly, chewing well, and even manages to hold in reserve a small scrap of meat that he later has the luxurious pleasure of hand-feeding to Mr. Wiggums.

The miracle continues the next day, and the day after. Anders tries not to question it, afraid that it might cease to be if he does — but he can actually think again, now that he isn't starving, and there's only so much else for him to think about.

There's the cold. He's almost certain that it's worse than it was before his mind lost the power to register anything but the leaden, aching weakness of his limbs and the stabbing pain in his core. He strains to remember how many weeks he's been down here and realizes that it must be almost winter by now. Maker, he'd thought the tower was unbearable in winter when he'd had robes to cover him and a bed to sleep in. Now he's stripped down to his smallclothes and surrounded by nothing but stone that drains him of warmth wherever his exposed skin touches it.

There's the matter of getting any sleep on that cold, hard stone. Lately it hadn't been a problem. At some point each day, he would simply pass out from hunger and not regain consciousness until he heard the slot rattling open for dinner. Now, though, the balance between exhaustion and discomfort has tipped the other way, and the only remedy for it Anders can come up with is exercise. His cell is four strides deep and three across. When he was first brought here, pacing would bore him into giving up long before it tired him out. That isn't the case anymore. He's already light-headed and trembling with effort by the time he pulls himself to his feet, and he manages just a few laps of the perimeter — with frequent pauses to lean against the wall and rest — before he collapses.

There's Mr. Wiggums, who provides a little bit of merciful warmth when he comes around to nap on Anders' chest. Can that really be comfortable for a kitty? Better than the floor, yes, but surely there are mages upstairs who would be happy to let such a charming little beastie sleep in their beds. Even if the kitty just _likes_ sleeping on people's chests, wouldn't he prefer one that doesn't have ribs poking out? Does the kitty know how much Anders loves him? Does he know how challenging it is for Anders to resist eating these last small morsels from his dinner for long enough to trade them in for sandpapery little kitty kisses? Mr. Wiggums is a very good kitty, yes he is, and he deserves lots of tasty treats, but he should be careful, or he is going to get too fat to slip between the bars lining the gaps around the cell door!

Still, it doesn't take long before there's nothing left to do but wonder. Is there a new guard on the shift? Did someone realize what the last one was doing and decide to put a stop to it? Or is this just a temporary reprieve, an attempt to fatten him up so that they can starve him again later without killing him? That thought sets Anders' heart racing almost too quickly for his weakened body to bear.

There's a part of him that feels ridiculous for even thinking it. For the sake of his pulse, Anders would like very much to listen to that part and dismiss the whole idea as paranoia, but it would make so much more sense than the idea that the guard ever meant to starve him to death. If they were willing to kill him in cold blood, there would have been easier ways to do that. Far more likely they mean to break him down until he gives them an excuse, and this change in routine is no reason to believe they've given up on that.

When, at the end of the week, the guard enters his cell to change his chamber pot, Anders watches them closely. He thinks they may be a bit shorter than the one who withheld food from him, but he can't be certain. Between the armor, the darkness, and his own faulty memory, he has no way of telling one Templar from the next.

No way, that is, except to ask. He holds out on trying that, because while some guards have simply refused to speak to him, others have entered his cell and struck him as a reminder that he isn't supposed to be speaking to them, either. On the eighth day of double rations, though, Anders notices ice crystals forming in his water pitcher and decides that the risk is worth it.

"You're not planning on cutting back on my food again when I least expect it, are you?" He directs the question at the solid metal door, straining to make his voice sound casual after probably an hour or more of putting together the words and rehearsing them in his mind. "Because if you are, I humbly suggest you consider lopping my head off instead. It's getting colder every day. I won't live very long without the fuel to keep myself warm."

"That won't happen again," says what sounds like a woman's voice. Did Anders ever hear the voice of the guard he's worried about? Yes, he's almost certain that he did. Not full words, just a few deep sighs of boredom — but they were rather masculine sighs. "It shouldn't have happened at all."

"So... you're making up for that now? With extra rations? For how long?"

"For as long as I can get away with it," the Templar answers stiffly. "Which might not be very long at all if you don't be quiet. I'm not supposed to talk to you."

He wants to believe her. He has no reason not to.

"Thank you," he says. The Templar doesn't respond, which is just as well, because Anders' voice is already rasping from unaccustomed use, and anyhow he doesn't know if he could string together many more words without another hour of planning.

—

Winter comes. Somewhere far above Anders' head, apprentices are wrapping themselves up in blankets and vying with each other for the seats nearest the too-small hearths. By now, Lake Calenhad is churning with sheets of ice that the blizzard winds send crashing into each other and shattering into pieces small enough to melt back into the water. Anders used to watch it through the windows, waiting for the day it would freeze over entirely and he could simply walk out across the ice. That day never came — which is just as well, really, because if it had, Anders probably would have died snowblind and frostbitten.

Down here in the dark, his water pitcher _does_ freeze all the way, and he has to burn mana to thaw it whenever he needs a drink. That leaves him with less power for warming his own body, which might not be quite as much of a problem if only his body didn't have to share its warmth with the floor. A thick blanket to lie on would be ideal, but even just having his clothes back would improve matters. Thinking of that makes him recall again how the Templars forced him to strip before taking hold of him and shoving him into the filthy cell, the joints of their gauntlets catching on his bare skin and leaving behind sore, red pinch-marks where they gripped him. Apparently, the robe he'd been wearing at the time was more valuable than he is; it would have been a terrible shame if _it_ were damaged.

On the bright side, it's been weeks since he spoke to the new guard, and she's still sneaking him extra food. Maybe she'd be sympathetic enough to bring him something to help with the cold if he asked her, but Anders is hesitant to push his luck. The help she's already providing might very well be the only thing keeping him strong enough to channel the mana he needs to avoid freezing.

Mr. Wiggums is a good sport about the cold, still dutifully coming to visit his human when he really ought to be curled up by a fire somewhere. The thick fur coat must help, except in that it keeps tempting those hairless, uncouth animals like Anders to shove their big, dumb hands against him and steal his warmth. But Mr. Wiggums is a _very_ good kitty, so he puts up with it, even as the season wears on and Anders' fingers grow too stiff from the chill to properly reward him with head scratches.

Doing his laps gets harder as time goes by. Anders hoped that it would be the opposite, that he would grow stronger with food and practice, but his legs are stiff like his fingers. For a while he keeps them going with magic, working wisps into his sluggish blood and dragging it into circulating the way he needs, but his hands are in poor shape too, and that makes the more fiddly spells difficult to cast. Finally there comes a day when he only just makes it to his feet before his knees give out beneath him and he falls. His arms aren't quick enough to catch him, and his head cracks on the stone.

His whole skull and everything inside of it throbs with the impact. Maybe he was knocked unconscious and woke up to a headache that'd had time to spread, or maybe the pain just came on more suddenly than he ever knew was possible. Anders can't even tell anymore. He can't remember what it's like to feel all the way awake.

There's a clamor in his aching head, an eager chorus of whispered promises from creatures that don't mind freezing and revel in despair. Their wizened faces flicker in his vision, all gaping, hungry mouths with too many teeth. Anders squeezes his eyes shut and wills them away. If he wanted to give up his life to escape the cold, it would be easy enough just to light himself on fire.

Well. There's a thought. Anders can't deny that fire would be nice right now, and there's nothing else around to burn.

That would mean missing dinner, though. And Mr. Wiggums' next visit.

And all of the agonizingly long hours in between.

There must be something else. It's good to have food, and Maker knows he loves his cat, but that's not enough. Not when he hurts like this.

He shouldn't give the Templars the satisfaction. That's an old standby. He's a thorn in their side, and he shouldn't do them the courtesy of removing himself. How long has he been in the dungeon? About seven months now? That's seven months they've had to have someone guarding his cell at all times, boring themselves crazy.

Maybe that's why they sent one of the nicer ones this time. Better free up the sadists to work on mages who aren't already broken.

But it's also been seven months that no one else has been worked on _down here_. This cell's been occupied and all the ones around it kept vacant, as though the Templars feared what he might be able to pull off if there were another mage around for him to talk to.

Anders stares at the ceiling, trying to make out the black iron chains he knows are hanging from it. They're nearly impossible to see in the darkness, but his memories of them are clear enough. If his fingers weren't so numb, he could feel around his own wrists for the scars they left there. He could seek out the dents in the skin on his back marking where blood flowed down as he hung.

Things could be worse, he reminds himself. Things could always be worse, for him and for everyone else.

Well, not always. And not for _everyone_ else. There are human bones in some of the other cells. Anders remembers that, too, from his earlier, briefer stays down here.

If he dies, will they simply leave him to wither? Will he never make it out of this cell even as a corpse?

Anders shivers with something worse than cold. He doesn't want to die. Was he just thinking that he wanted to die? Maker, that was stupid of him. But that's no surprise, since everything he's ever done has been immensely, mortifyingly stupid. Everything he's ever done has led to this, to here, to the freezing, lonely dark and his body failing piece by piece.

The next thing he knows, he is screaming.

"Please! Hurts, help, I need, please! So cold, too cold! Blankets, hot water, anything, help!" The appeals slip out between stretches of inarticulate wailing. The guard doesn't respond. Can she even hear what he's saying, or is it lost beneath the wordless agony? "I fell down from the cold and it feels like I'm dying!" There: a full sentence. Is it clear enough? He hopes so. He doesn't think he has it in him to be any clearer. Instead of struggling and failing to elaborate, he repeats it over and over — "I fell down from the cold and it feels like I'm dying!" — screaming and then rasping and then whispering and then screaming again, until finally the Templar snaps.

"Anders, I am giving you what I can. That isn't an invitation to press me for more." Her tone is firmly reproachful but lacking in malice, as though she were speaking to a tantruming child. Anders can't entirely blame her for that; he _feels_ like a child, too small to fit in his own body without it slipping off.

"It feels like I'm dying," he repeats helplessly.

"You aren't going to die," the Templar assures him. "You're already more than halfway through your year. You can make it if you just hold on."

So if he doesn't make it, it will mean that he didn't hold fast enough. It won't be her fault. It won't be anyone's fault but his.

Maybe that's even true, in a way. He needs help, but he isn't asking for it very well, is he? He has to do better. He has to make her understand.

"How can you know that I'll make it?" he asks her. "People die down here all the time!"

"Anders, please try to listen to yourself right now. You're sounding paranoid, and that's not good for anyone."

"I'm not! Look around you! Look at the bones!" But she won't look, will she? She won't look at anything, won't even look at him. Anger surges in his chest, hot and strong and vital, unlike anything else he's felt in ages. "You kill us down here, and then you leave us, because you want us to know that you kill us!"

"I have never done any such thing. I am trying to help you. Don't repay me by shouting at me and throwing around accusations. I don't deserve that."

And just like that, the anger is extinguished by shame. She could very well be telling the truth about herself. From what little he's seen of her, Anders thinks that she probably is. But what is he supposed to do? If he doesn't speak plainly enough about the reasons for his fear, he sounds weak. If he speaks too plainly, he sounds accusatory.

"Do I deserve to freeze to death?" he tries.

"You are _not_ going to freeze to death. Calm down."

Anders screeches in frustration and despair. "You don't _want_ me calm!" There is no way to convince her, but now that he has started speaking again after so long, he isn't going to be stopped just by knowing that his words will accomplish nothing. "I wouldn't be here if you wanted me calm! You want me hurting you want me crazy you want me _dead_!"

"No, I don't. All I want you to be is a _little_ bit gracious, because I'm doing what I can."

He once had it in him to be gracious. He once had it in him to be charming and persuasive. But that part of him isn't working right now, just like his legs and his fingers aren't working.

And whose fault is that? This Templar can insist all she likes that it isn't hers, but it _is_ her order's, and she is here to enforce their will. She isn't going to save him, and if he makes any attempt to save himself, she will stop him. That's what it means that she's standing guard.

"You _did_ this to me! _You_ did this to me! _You did this to me_!"

"I didn't. What I did was give you extra rations and try to talk to you like a reasonable person. But I guess that was a mistake."

Of course it was. He's far too cold to be reasonable.

Or does she mean that it was a mistake to feed him? Does she think he'd be more pleasant company if he were starving? Well, maybe he would be. Maybe he'd be too weak to pester her. Or too dead.

"You did this to me!" She could have done worse. She might still do worse, if he doesn't shut up. But the words won't stop. "You did this to me you did this to me you did this to me!" The conviction builds on itself. He says it, and then feels ashamed, and then says it again to remind himself why he has no reason for shame.

The Templar doesn't respond. Eventually Anders' voice gives out, and, with all his strength and his emotion spent, he falls into a turbulent sleep. His dreams offer up furs and hot stew and down-stuffed beds, but it's easy enough not to trust them. In fact, withholding his trust is easier than it's ever been before.

—

The next day, Anders is given exactly as much food as he is supposed to be given, no more and no less, and feels no surprise at that. He doesn't feel much of anything. He eats, and then thaws out his water and drinks, and then works warming magic through his limbs. At some point, without really thinking about it, he starts screaming again.

'Shut up!" a voice shouts at him from outside the cell. It isn't the voice of the guard Anders spoke to yesterday, and that doesn't surprise him either. It also doesn't stop him from screaming.

The door swings open. The new Templar drags him up by the throat and punches him just beneath his chest, driving the air from his lungs and strangling his screams, then drops him to the floor and spits on him before stepping back out and slamming the door shut.

 _At least I know exactly where I stand with this one,_ Anders thinks dully. Then unconsciousness flows over him like a tide and swallows him down again.


End file.
